Dutch, the language of the Netherlands, is dying and not too many people have noticed. I am not referring to the 90% of the world population unaware that Dutch is a language nor for that matter that the Netherlands is a country. I am talking about Dutch speakers, mostly in the Netherlands and Belgium. Few of them are aware of their language’s nearing demise. Almost all of them speak English and a good number of them are competent in German and French as well, not to mention all those who also are somewhat proficient in one to five other languages.
But it is English that is the pernicious killer here. English for years has been the most popular language for pop music, with most of any week’s top ten songs being sung not in Dutch but in English. Such a preference for not-my-mother tongue is unheard and unheard of in Germany, France and Spain.
English is the language of business in Holland and Belgium, certainly in the multinationals and also in the import and export trade which is the lifeblood of these economies. Here, English is trendy.
English has also in the last decade become the academic language of choice. In a successful attempt to attract foreign students, Dutch and Flemish universities and other institutes of higher learning require their professors to conduct their classes in English, even if both the professor and the majority of students in a given class are Dutch and Flemish. It does not take a Delphic oracle to conclude that once the highest level of education is given in a foreign language, the most educated people in these countries (1) will become even more proficient in English and, (2) will, perhaps subconsciously, come more and more to associate their native language as something to speak only, if it all, at home and in shops — an aboriginal dialect.
The trend here, where not only almost every educated person speaks English but where also almost everyone is educated, is accelerating. For at least a generation professional programmers have eschewed translations of technical manuals, preferring the precision and — let’s admit it — better general readability of the original English versions.
Dutch is not yet dead. It does and will survive in pubs and family gatherings, as the tongue of nostalgia and gezelligheid — that lovely and untranslatable Dutch/Flemish word and feeling combining sociability, friendliness, jolliness, merriment, comfort and coziness. But the language itself may be, probably is, dying. One recent case in point: Los diez grandes inventos de la evolución. That is the title of the Spanish translation of Nick Lane’s wonderful new book Life Ascending, The Ten Great Inventions of Evolution, 2009. I bought my copy here in Amsterdam, in a Dutch bookstore, in the original version, the English version.
Where is the Dutch translation? There isn’t one. People here who read books by biochemists read English.
Q.E.D.
Mi libro favorito del 2009
Me gusta mucho ir de compras, para los libros. Otras personas les gusta jugar al golf o caminar pero yo prefiero leer.
En una tienda de libros a veces pienso que sólo estoy mirando, pero siempre existe la posibilidad de que voy a encontrar algo bueno. En la librería Scheltema in Amsterdam he encontrado mi libro favorito del 2009: Los diez grandes inventos de la evolución por Nick Lane.
Nick Lane es bioquímico y profesor honorario del University College London. Como Ian Stewart escribe, este libro es un escrito fascinante y hermoso que cuenta los grandes misterios de la vida. Este es un ejemplo de por qué me gusta ir de compras para los libros. (Lo he leído en el inglés)
Los Diez Grandes Invenciones de la evolución son el origen de la vida, la creación de ADN, la fotosíntesis, la evolución de las células complejas, sexo, movimiento, vista, sangre caliente, la conciencia y la muerte.
¿Qué vosotros gusta para comprar, y también qué es lo que odias?
Yeti mother sneaker yet another speaker
(taking notes at a public meeting addressed by Mai Selph)
He slurs his words but whose words would you have him
slur, not those of yours nor Jesus Christ’s?
His verbal bons mots do not if you halve them
sum up to something better than what’s spliced
between the sheets, main braces and stale phlegm
that cross and short connections in his mind.
I’d be preciser but I’m being kind.
I’d be grammatical but he is blind
to what I’m writing here: he does not read
and more precision would not add one jot
to this jammy, namby-pamby polyglot
who stands before us speaking. He’s enthralled
by what he thinks he’s saying. Wan eyes glisten
as he assumes because we face him that we listen.
New Hero
My new hero is Mary Holtry.
‘Heroin’? No thanks.
Effervescent, cogent, witty,
Mary plays new pranks.
Old plots, staging, battles raging?
Through her they entertain.
I thank my pinup Mary Holtry
and read her poems again.
Ages of Moan, Nr. 1
If cynicism’s seven I am nine.
The labels used for politics seem daft
as those of literature, and even mine
are drafty as a rotten-boarded raft.
Conservative is meaningless where Fate
is actually nothing. Liberal is less.
Romantic’s passed by years its sell-by date
and Realism’s forced and must confess
that they are all, these labels, nothing now.
But Life itself is filled with Gems it means
to be adored, not analyzed on how
they might be labeled. I adore the clean
and mystic wonder of Life’s precious things
like birdsong, smiles, and ageless wedding rings.
Expounding Chaos
Pursuing nothing, you had made no sound.
I had focused on the absences in rock
and turned my back on each, till turning round
to what was left, your presence, I took stock
and settled on where nothings weren’t, and found
you guarding eggs. A nesting raven cock!
Your study made you steadfast, but you screamed
when I seized you by your neck. I had not dreamed
cock ravens could be captured on a mountain,
setting on six eggs on stony ground.
Feather Duster
This falling feather flosses out my mind.
It’s quill’s fine filigree both stokes and quells
my fears, forgives the furor my thoughts cause.
At least imagination bids me think
this fancy true as any other held
by man and ape upon the watered rock
that we call Earth. Our cerebella rock
to reconcile impressions that we mind
forgetting. Stocked with false ideas we’ve held
since Odin was a pup, my conscience quells
at learning aught that’s new. I’m taught to think
tautologies, reject emotions’ cause,
progress the prelates’ calculus, show cause
in prissy predicates that place a rock
upon our wisdom’s grave. I truly think,
I think, existence is a grind I mind.
To forage in my heightened forehead quells
all chance of knowing truth. My hubris held
my hopes at knuckle height. In fact it held
me hostage to reliance on First Cause,
as if it mattered What it is that quells
the quintessential harmonies that rock
the rabid cave bear reigning as my mind.
My alma mater cringes when I think.
‘As well it should,’ I think I hear you think.
‘A shame,’ you add, ‘this “thinker” can’t be held
for eons in the maw of frosty mind
to nibble nuggets from raw ore and cause
a comic mudslide capped with falling rock
that hacks off gods ensuring that one quells
his run-on words, his Runyon swords.’ What quells
me quickest (I should know) is fear, I think.
So bind your thoughts, compress your sand to rock
and cobble walls like Hadrian’s that held
and gave the Romans pause (or did it cause
the Scots stay home? Whose haggis come to mind?)
The feather joins me hoping you won’t mind,
or muddle fairways taking up a cause.
The road to Hades’ paved with thoughts I’ve held.
A Short Piece
Of the night sleeps I remember none are short
as this one, stopping on the second line
of counting sheep to stare into the dark.
Outside, a baby’s screaming like a cat.
I pretend it is the other way around
and blank out themes I wrestled with in ‘Piece Work.’
One’s killing to save peace. It only works
for spans of time that are extremely short.
A chamber of the sort that takes a round
expels a load that tracks a laser line
from a man I’d called my neighbor towards the cat.
My eyes trace glaring red-blacks through the dark
into the trees. The morning starts off dark
and worsens with each step I walk to work.
On a tree I see a poster for a cat:
a child is missing. There’s another short
note penned below it: felt-tip single line
that the cat and child no longer are around.
My partner in our workplace shuns my round
of questions. Answers leave us in the dark
as they must for now; we only have the line
we gave each other when we came to work.
The lines of customers grow thin and short
and thinking comes in quietly as a cat.
We two, who once were proud of how we’d cat
around, when times were easy, have come round
to valuing what’s important now we’re short
of options, and we rage against the dark
together, as if rhetoric could work
a miracle. We want a party line.
‘Peace at all costs’ and ‘Do not cross this line’
compete, and we consider if the cat
survives its boxing; we ask whether work
will be an option if bad forces round
upon us and extinguish peace. The dark
unites us and cuts hopes and whining short.
We load our weapons for the coming round
of vigilance, hold lines against the dark,
and think our war successful. Peace is short.